The Secret Life
by Beaker Bait
Summary: “I don't want to die without any scars.” reedited: Chapters have all been combined into one with the ending added.
1. Sleepless

Title: The Secret Life. 

Summary: "I don't want to die without any scars."

Spoilers: Nothing really I don't think but just to be safe anything from season one is fair game.

Warnings: Possible language is really the only thing to worry about.

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis is not mine. Anything to do with 'Fight Club' is not mine. Only the story line and any made up characters that may appear in the story belong to me.

A/N: Ok I have no real excuse for this story except that it was inspired after watching the movie 'Fight Club' at two in the morning and not having slept in two days. I'm not sure if there will be any real plot to this story, but nothing else has roused my muse lately so I decided to run with this. Yes this is loosely based off of 'Fight Club'. It won't be necessary for you to have seen that movie to understand this story.

This will be an OC driven fic, canon characters may pop up on occasion but they will not be the focus of this story. If this is not your type of story turn back now, I will be saddened to loose a reader, but if this isn't your cup of tea I can't force you.

--

As thoughts clouded his mind, Sgt. Caleb Masterson's grip on his hand gun tightened. His quarters felt muggy that night, his shirt stuck to his back as he sat on the edge of his bed. He was alone, hunched over, gazing down at the gun in his hand, running his thumb over the etchings in the handle, the groves, then over the hammer.

Glancing at the clock he noticed that it was three-thirty two in the morning. It had now been exactly seven days since he'd had any real sleep. Caleb had to chuckle at the fact he knew down to the minute how long it had been, most insomniacs didn't care about the exact time they'd gone with out sleep just that they had – but then again Caleb had never really been like most people.

It seemed like he'd tried everything from counting sheep to sedatives (stolen from the infirmary of course). There was no way in hell he was going to let the doctors know about his problem, he would be pulled off of active duty so fast he'd get whip lash – can't have sleep deprived soldiers playing with expensive and deadly toys.

His insomnia had snatched him away from the real world and now he could only view it from a distance. The image was distorted, like through a peephole and it was at moments like this, late in the night that he contemplated ways that he could permanently put himself to sleep. But he never did, for reason he himself could never quite figure out. He lowered the gun and took his forehead in hand and hunched over, closing his eyes.

Resigning him self to the fact that he was again going to have another sleepless night Caleb dropped the gun on the bed and headed for the door to spend another night wandering aimlessly around the city. His nightly walkabouts had started some time around the third or fourth night after boredom had set in. It hadn't taken long for him to notice things he'd never noticed before.

In the gloom everything looked different. Not as sinister as one might think at such a late hour, but softer. The lights dimmed in an attempt to conserve power cast everything in an amber glow. The corridors were quieter, practically deserted with the exception of the occasional night crew worker.

Finding his way out onto one of the various balconies around the city Caleb discovered that it was raining softly. Face upturned to the skies, eyes closed, he let the water flow down his face. The rain distracted him, took him to another place. It might have been the insomnia or it might just have been him, he didn't know and didn't really care.

As the rain slowed, he tried to watch each of the last fragile drops fall to the ground. When he was certain that the last drop had fallen he began to look around again. The sun was starting to rise; time to start another _fun _filled day of playing lab rat – Caleb had the unfortunate honor of being a low class grunt with the ATA gene; too low on the totem pole to be assigned to an off world team but too useful to waste away on something monotonous like guard duty. Finding his way back to his quarters Caleb prepared for his day.

Caleb's day was spent pretty much the same way it was everyday; locked up in the labs with scientists ordering him to touch this or touch that. At some point Sheppard had entered the lab to annoy McKay before dragging him off for some team bonding or something, Caleb didn't really care. Sitting in one of the back corners he glared at his CO's back in an attempt to gain some pride over the situation.

He hated Major John Sheppard; he didn't know why he just did. Maybe it was something to do with the way the man always seemed to be smiling in one way or another like he didn't have a care in the world. Or maybe it was something entirely different - maybe it was the hair. Either way, Caleb still hated Sheppard with his devil may care laid back attitude. The sound of an irritated scientist clearing their throat brought Caleb out of his thoughts, with a mental sigh he got back to work.

--

Again the next night Caleb found himself back out on the same balcony as the night before.

"You know if you keep hiding away like this people are going to start thinking you're anti-social." Caleb barely glanced up as Sgt. Tyson Dell, probably the closest person to a friend he had, came to stand next to him.

"Hey," Caleb croaked out, his voice rough from lack of use. He rarely spoke anymore, no one with the exception of Tyson ever listened to him anyway, so why waste the effort.

Silence fell between the two friends for several moments before Caleb broke it – not because it was uncomfortable or anything, but because it was unusual. "You're awfully quiet tonight." Normally you couldn't shut Tyson up.

"Hit me." That had completely come out of the blue.

"What? You're joking." There was no way he'd heard his friend right.

"Hit me." Tyson looked dead serious. "I'm serious I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

"Why?"

"Why? I don't know why, maybe because I've never been in a real fight before." Tyson shrugged. "Have you ever been in a fight? Not that sparring crap we do in the gym on occasion, but a real fight, a knock-em-down, drag-em-out bare knuckled fistfight. A real fight is not putting your dukes up and boxing the ears off another guy. That's like foreplay. Its fun gets your blood up, puts fire in your eyes. But it's not real- it's _talking _about being real. A _real _fight means putting the other guy into a position they can't get out of, then beating the shit out of them until they say stop, or go limp – even if they're just faking."

"That's usually a good thing." Caleb looked at his friend like he was nuts. But then again the one thing he knew with out a doubt was the fact that Tyson Dell was one crazy bastard.

"No, it's not! How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight? I don't want to die without any scars and let's face it at this rate we're never going to see any real action, we'll die of old age in our sleep or one of those Ancient gadgets we're always being ordered to touch will finally explode in our faces."

"This is crazy."

"So go crazy. Let 'er rip." Tyson turned to fully face Caleb, urging him on. "Who knows maybe it'll even make you feel better. Think of this as a way to vent out whatever it is that's been bugging you all week."

"Dude I knew you wanted to get into Heightmeyer's pants but I didn't know you wanted her job too."

"Look its human nature to fight and fighting causes pain. Most people think pain is a bad thing, I don't. No I think pain is a _release_ and you, my man, need a release. So shut the fuck up and just hit me already!"

Knowing that Tyson wasn't going to let it go Caleb took a half-hearted swing at his friend hitting him in the jaw. "There happy?"

"Yeah…My turn." Tyson shot out with a swing of his own, straight into Caleb's stomach. Caleb fell back against the balcony railing.

Regaining his breath Caleb came back with a knee to Tyson's gut. Tyson returned the favor with a hard punch to Caleb's ribs. Caleb smirked and went to hit his friend again, but this time Tyson dodged to the right and gripped Caleb's arm and threw him to the ground. Caleb got up and as he turned around his face came in contact with Tyson's clenched fist.

The fight didn't last long soon after that. Both men were breathing heavily their punches having less steam behind them. By mutual consent both friends stopped fighting and slid down to the ground leaning against the railing, their eyes glazed with endorphin-induced serenity. Out there on that balcony under the starry night Caleb slept, truly slept, for the first time in what seemed like forever.

--

The next morning Caleb sat in the mess hall with his head down poking at the food in front of him. Studying the subtle pattern of the materials that made up the mess hall tables had taken on the new significance for Caleb. If his eyes remained fixed on the table, he didn't have to face anyone. Which was perfectly acceptable to him, Caleb preferred to stick to the shadows where he couldn't be seen by others, but where he could still see them.

"Bloody hell lad, what happened to you?"

Startled Caleb jerked his gaze up to find Beckett standing over his table. Glancing around the room he noticed that it wasn't yet quite as full as it normally was in the morning, which probably explained how Beckett had spotted him. Blinking up at the man Caleb didn't answer too surprised that somebody other than Tyson had spoken to him with anything more then an ordered 'touch this' or 'touch that'.

"Your eye, lad," Carson indicated the deep purple-ish black bruise that ran from Caleb's eyebrow down to his cheek bone and back to his temple as he sat down at the table. "Nasty looking bruise you've got there."

Caleb shrugged and told him the truth without telling him anything. "Sparring accident, zigged when I should'a zagged."

"You should've come to the infirmary."

"Why just so you could tell me to put some ice on it and take a couple of aspirin?" Caleb went back to poking at his food. "Hate to break it to you Doc but I'm perfectly capable of figuring that out all on my own. Now if you'll excuse me I have places to be, wouldn't want the scientists to get pissy because their lab rat was late." His voice was edged with bitterness.

Rising from the table Caleb started to walk away, weaving his way through the growing crowd. Carson rose as well and went to call after the younger man, but paused when he realized that he didn't even know the man's name though he did look vaguely familiar. Frowning Carson sat back down and picked at his own food suddenly not all that hungry.

--

It was like an addiction.

At least once a week every week Caleb and Tyson found themselves beating the crap out of each other. In the beginning after Caleb's little run in with Beckett they'd been careful about where they hit each other usually avoiding the face area. But after a freak accident had landed Tyson in the infirmary with minor burns on his hands from an Ancient device that had back fired, the man had put his pick-pocketing skills to use and had stolen an Ancient healing device that could be used to heal minor cuts and bruises. After that all bets where off in their fights.

After that first fight things had quickly snowballed from there and before either Caleb or Tyson knew it they'd added half a dozen or so other lower class grunts – military and civilian – to their little underground fighting ring. The rules were laid. Each week, once a week, they fight. During that time there was no rank, no uniform. They were shirtless, sweat-slicked, bloodied warriors. Challenges were made, scores were settled. Then the night was over, the wounds were healed, and the men returned to their normal lives never talking about what they did once a week every week in the dead of night.

It wasn't about winning or losing. It wasn't about words. When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered. Who they were when fighting wasn't who they were to the rest of the world. They weren't alive anywhere else like they were when fighting; it was the ultimate adrenaline rush. Afterwards, they felt saved, saved from the monotony of their lives. Work…Eat…Sleep…Being forced to slave all day so someone else could reap the benefits of their blood, sweat and tears. They came to fight for the fight, nothing more nothing less.

The fights were furious and passionate that night, as the threat of capture made the group anxious. The last fight of the night was between Tyson and a botany geek named Carrey. Tyson sauntered around the circle in an open stance of arrogant assuredness. Intimidation was one of his weapons and he obviously thought Carrey would be no match. Bare-chested, the younger fighter seemed soft in comparison to his opponent's sinewy frame. But Carrey had a discipline of stance that was not about show or posturing, only concentration on the matter at hand.

"Come on plant boy let's see what you got." Tyson taunted.

Carrey unleashed a gang of vicious punches which Tyson calmly sidestepped. He grabbed the outstretched arm, and threw Carry to the ground.

A knee digging into his back, Carrey spat out, "Don't get cocky, now, just when you think you have the advantage…" Suddenly he unleashed a scissor kick that torqued his upper body around. Tyson was thrown off him, landing on the ground and hitting his head. Immediately Carrey was on him pinning Tyson face down to the ground. Without hesitation Carrey began to smash Tyson's head into the ground over and over.

It wasn't long before Tyson tapped out. Instantly Carrey released his hold and stepped away offering Tyson a hand up. Caleb pushed his way through the crowd to help get Tyson to his feet. A large gash had been opened just above his left eyebrow and was bleeding heavily – it was going to need stitches, the healing device wouldn't cut it this time.

"Rematch, next week?" Carrey held his hand out.

"How about next _month_?" Tyson limply shook his opponent's hand to show no hard feelings.

Carrey chuckled, "you're on," then walked away the fights over for the night.

"Infirmary?" Tyson questioned as Caleb swung the other man's arm over his shoulders and started for the door.

"Infirmary." Caleb confirmed.

"How the fuck we going to explain this one?"

"Simple your clumsy ass fell down a flight of stairs while we were going for a nightly jog."

"Fell? Was more like pushed." Tyson joked as the two men hobbled their way to the infirmary.

--

Wandering around the city unable to sleep John paused in one of the lesser used sections when he heard what sounded like a fight. Following the sound he found himself in a small open room where he could see Caleb beating the crap out of another man whose face he couldn't make out under all the blood while surrounded by about ten other men.

"What the hell is going on here?" John demanded moving farther into the room. Suddenly the room fell dead silent as everyone turned to face Sheppard. Glaring at Caleb in the center of the room Sheppard spoke again. "I expect an answer when I ask a question soldier."

Suddenly something snapped inside of Caleb he was so sick and tired of being treated like shit, like he wasn't a person, of being told what to do or where to go. Before he fully realized it he swung out as hard as he could, smacking Sheppard right in the jaw.

Surprised Sheppard stumbled back several steps one hand griping his jaw, "What the fuck –?" He was cut off as Caleb once again smacked him. "This is insubordination Sgt!"

"What're going to do uh Sheppard?" Caleb began pounding Sheppard. "Court martial me and lock me in the brig? Go right a head I could use the vacation! Gonna give me some shitty ass assignment? Guess what, I already have the shittiest assignment in this shit hole! I spend every day playing lab rat for a bunch of arrogant stuck up self centered little shits who don't even know my fucking name and think they can treat me as less than human because they think they're smarter than me!"

Getting fed up with being used as a punching bag Sheppard started to fight back. He tackled Caleb to the ground like a linebacker hoping to subdue the man by pinning him to the ground. Caleb of course knew that move of desperation was coming and shot his left leg out kicking Sheppard square in the kneecap. When Sheppard went down he pounced on the downed man. Hit after hit after hit. Caleb was so engrossed in the moment that he wasn't aware of anything else. Even after Sheppard went limp Caleb continued to throw hit after hit, it took Tyson and two other guys to pull him off.

Staring down at the bloody, unconscious form of his CO, Caleb felt a surge of satisfaction run through him. "Welcome to my world." He turned his back on Sheppard and disappeared back into the crowd. Maybe the man wouldn't smile so damn much any more.

--

A/N: For the time being I'm going to end the story here. I know it's a bit of a cliff hanger but I think it fits. I may add an epiloge that kind of goes in to some of the after math but I'm not sure yet if any of you would like to help with ideas or anything feel free to drop me a line.


	2. Aftermath

In solitary confinement Caleb laid on the small cot in the brig staring up at the ceiling trying to sleep. Once the fight with Sheppard had ended and the man had regained consciousness Sheppard had immediately had Caleb arrested and locked up in the brig. Right after the fight the others had been smart enough to scatter before Sheppard woke up and positively identified any of them – which he hadn't. The lights had been dimmed in the room and he'd been too busy fighting Caleb to take in any other faces. 

That had been three days ago.

In the past Caleb probably would have been bothered by the events of the last few days but over the last few weeks Caleb had subtly started to change and couldn't really bring himself to care – at least they actually knew his name now. He'd quickly gone from being a quiet, do as you're told obedient pushover to being a sarcastic, snarky, insubordinate asshole who couldn't give a shit about what happened to him. He'd known it was only a matter of time before the fighting brought down the notice of his superiors; things had been growing steadily out of control. Atlantis was like a fish bowl eventually, no matter how hard one tried not to let it happen, secrets came out.

Caleb nearly startled when the sound of the door leading into the room opened. He'd spent the last three days in solitary, receiving visits from no one not even Sheppard so the sound of the door hissing open echoed loudly through his head. Lifting his head he craned his neck to see who had finally come to see him.

With a sigh he dropped his head back down. "Figures they'd send you."

"Did you really expect anything less?" Heightmeyer questioned as she moved closer to the holding cell, pulling up a chair to sit on.

"No just surprised it took them so long." Caleb pushed himself up into a sitting position; might as get this over with.

"Why?" Kate didn't see any reason to beat around the bush.

"Why what? Why'd I beat the shit out of Sheppard? I think I explained myself pretty well at the time." He shrugged.

"Why'd you start fighting?" She clarified.

"I hadn't slept in a week, a friend told me to hit him, said it'd help, I accused him of trying to steal your job, we then beat the shit out of each other. I slept like a baby that night."

"If you were having problems why didn't you speak with somebody about it?"

"With you, you mean?"

"Among other people." Kate nodded then moved on. "But that still doesn't explain why you continued to do it." Caleb didn't answer and Kate didn't say anything more, just patiently waited for an answer. Caleb began to fidget.

"Alright fine," Caleb finally exploded. "Maybe I did it because I am so sick and tired of the fucked up way people treat me around here and I saw this as my way of getting back, of getting what I deserve. I am a Marine in the United States Marine Corp for Christ sakes I deserve to get some fucking respect! I didn't come on this mission so that I could play lab rat for the rest of my life. I should be out there in the field fighting the Wraith or the Genii or what ever other villain of the week is out they trying to kill us, because that's what I was fucking _trained_ for!"

Caleb jumped to his feet and began to pace, "Are we done?"

"That depends on whether or not you're willing to keep talking to me."

"Give me one good reason why I should." Caleb stopped pacing, his back to Kate.

"Because I'd like to help you if I can."

Caleb's head snapped around at that, "Help me? You don't even fucking know _me_." He turned around to fully face her. "Until three days ago you didn't even know I fucking existed. You don't have the first fucking _clue_ about me."

"I know what's in your record." Kate stood up so that she was at eye level with Caleb.

Caleb snorted at that, "Big fucking deal. You think a person's psych record tells you all that much about them? News flash Doc, it don't tell you jack shit. Look, I appreciate that you're trying to do your job here, but I don't want or need your help. I can handle this all by myself, Doc. I'm a big boy, I've been looking out for myself since I was ten and my old man walked out because he couldn't take having a crazy wife and a screw up for a son."

Kate didn't back down just folded her arms and dug her heels in. "There's more to the fighting isn't there." It was a statement not a question.

Something inside Caleb snapped as he felt a rush of frustration and anger flow through him. "Maybe I did it because I just wanted to fucking end it all and was too much of a coward to do it myself! So I fought and I fought hopping that maybe in the heat of the moment the other guy would go too far and put me out of my misery…" Caleb trailed off as the full implication of what he'd just said sunk in. He had definitely _not_ meant to say any of that.

He sunk down to the floor leaning against the cell bars – the shield wasn't on thankfully. He'd just admitted that he was suicidal to the base shrink of all people. He was truly fucked now; they'd never let him out of his cage. He was never going to see the light of day again. Drawing his knees up he lowered his head to rest on them.

"Caleb?" Kate moved around the cell to crouch down near Caleb. He didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle. Awkwardly she reached a hand through the bars to gently grip Caleb's shoulder. "We're a long way from home, we have to trust and rely on each other if we hope to survive. Can you trust me to help you?"

Again Caleb didn't say anything, but Kate felt the tense muscles under her hand loosen just slightly. She figured that for the time being that was the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get from him.

--

(Caleb's POV)

If some one had told me a year ago my life was going to end up the way it had I'd have told them they were insane, but now sitting in my room – a new one not the one I'd chosen when first arriving in Atlantis – I have to chuckle at the irony, turns out I'm the insane one or at least that's what every body thinks. I feel like I'm going mad; they're treating me like a mental patient, but I'm not. I'm perfectly sane, perfectly together. Just because I beat the shit out of my CO and on occasion think about taking my own life – though I never will because I'm too chicken to do it myself – doesn't mean I'm insane.

Glancing around my new room I try to find something to occupy myself with. This room is smaller than my old room. There are no decorations, no trinkets, nothing just a bed, a dresser and a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. The only possessions I have are my clothes everything else of mine has been boxed up and stored away. I hate it here, I'm alone and closed in, I'm away from everyone else, and it's cold. But I guess Heightmeyer only has so much pull over the others, hell it took her over two weeks just to strong arm the others into letting me out of the brig stating that it was no place for long term treatment/recovery.

I think I might actually go mad, locked in here like this. I mean, I could go places out into the city, but there was always an ever present guard lurking around, keeping tabs on me, what I did, where I went. I hated it, but not quite as much as I hated this fucking room. Jumping to my feet I started for the door, stepping out I had to shake my head when I discovered whom my guard for the day was.

It was Tyson.

After a month of investigating Sheppard hadn't found out about anyone else that had been involved in the fighting. So while I was locked up and treated like a mental patient Tyson and the others had been roaming free causing their own kind of mischief. Neither Sheppard nor Weir had thought it fair to force others to stand guard over the 'crazy man' so they'd asked for volunteers – fools. Nine times out of ten those volunteers were one of mine, and by that I mean they were some of the lower class grunts that where fed up with being treated like second class citizens. So while I didn't have as much freedom as I would have liked I sure as hell had a lot more outside of my room with my ever present shadow than I did locked inside my much too small room.

Making our way through the corridors headed to the mess hall for breakfast I watched the people that passed by. I wonder what people think when they see me. Do they see me, really see me? Or do they merely see the face of a crazy man? I know that there are a few who look at me, really look at me and see who I am. See the pain I keep locked inside. They know it's there but they don't know what to do. Don't know that there is nothing they can do. Don't realize that they can't help me, can't fix me.

There are times when I hate them all. Hate the fact that I'm not like them, never can be like them. I hate them all, some days more than others but the emotion always lays hidden inside me. Waiting, constantly waiting, like a festering boil. Waiting for the day when I finally snap. Most people think that I've snapped already especially after I beat the shit out of Sheppard. But what they don't realize is that I haven't, not yet any way. See the fighting and all of that was my release, my way to keep from snapping.

Now with out that release I'm forced to keep everything locked up inside again and a day will come when I no longer have the control to keep it all bottled up inside. I know it will come the day when I finally lose it and when that day comes it will be the end. I won't be in control of what I say or do. I will no longer be welcome here – not that I'm all that welcome any more as it is.

I know I shouldn't take offense when people leave a little space around me. When they quickly step out of the way when I walk down the corridor. I should be past all of that; I shouldn't let that bother me. But it does, it bothers me a lot and I don't think I'll ever get over it. I know I should say something, talk to Heightmeyer, tell her what's bugging me rather than hide it away. But it's easier to bury the growing feelings of disgust and hate directed at all of them deep inside. It's simpler to just pretend I never notice, pretend I don't see the pity and the fear in their eyes.


End file.
